The Things We Bury - Part 2: No Big Apocalypse [Completed]

Chapter 10: Ain't No Sunshine (Part 1 of 6)

Getting off the elevator on the twenty-first floor, the sign read: "Restricted Area. Security clearance 5 and above. Only!" Maxwell wondered if the etched plastic placard had ever deterred anyone from proceeding past that point. Although, it probably never needed to. Probably didn't need to be there at all. One way or another, no one got to this floor unless they belonged here. Maxwell hadn't even known there was anything up here besides offices until this morning.

Catherine Fontaine led the way, her nose cut the air like a shark fin slicing through a chummed sea. The older woman was rail thin. Her shoulder blades showed through her silk blouse like a primordial exoskeleton.

"I would have expected more security," Maxwell said as they crossed a carpeted but empty reception space.

"You mean guards?"

Everything that came out of her mouth was a snap. It was like being a recruit interacting with a drill sergeant again. Maxwell found he didn't mind it so much. The gruff demeanor of Phil Donnelly and his assistant was a pleasant change after the flabby bureaucrats he had reported to previously at the DTAA. Maxwell still hadn't met Donnelly face to face. The director of the Agency had only called to tell Maxwell he was being given the position of Interim Sector Chief in the wake of Kendall's death.

Donnelly had been impressed with the way Maxwell had organized the assault troops. He had reigned in the chaos and restored order. With the mission blown, he redeployed the teams to clean up the area, retrieve the bodies of their comrades and the equipment and make the marina look relatively normal before reporters could descend it. Then he informed the press of the successful DEA raid on drug smugglers that had occurred there that evening.

The politicians, local and federal, spent the next day ranting about the harm drugs were doing to society and the dangers of Mexico. And no one examined what really had happened too closely.

"This is a passive detention block," Fontaine said explaining about the security. "Technology hasn't let us down yet. Surveillance enables us to neutralize threats before human intervention is required. If it makes you feel better, there is an armed security unit station on the twentieth."

Maxwell felt as though he had just been called an ignorant Luddite and he bristled to defend himself. But that wasn't the right play. Defensiveness would come off as weakness with these people.

"Impressive," was all he said.

They marched down a corridor that looked very much like one in an economy hotel or a cheap condominium building, with doors distributed at regular intervals along white walls. The only thing that broke the illusion of normalcy were the security locks and the flat screen monitors beside each door. The screens showed the contents of each room through a fisheye lens.

"You're first prisoner has been quartered in a suite as you requested. Here." She stopped at a door. The video image showed a man inside resting in a chair. His eyes were pressed closed and his head was tilted all the way back as though seeking some kind of inner peace. He was backlit by the morning light obscuring finer details.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked. "The initial psych evaluations weren't reassuring. We have a facility near Punxsutawney. We use it primarily for people who have witnessed things they shouldn't have and who can't be persuaded to believe they weren't real. A few of the doctors are competent , though. They might be able to do something for him."

"Thank you. But I believe I can bring him back and make him useful."

Fontaine shrugged as though saying, it's your funeral.